


The Snow Angel

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas Parties, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Rated M for description of murder art, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 07:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: A murder, a Christmas party and a conversation over a fresh wound.





	The Snow Angel

 

Will is gradually drifting away from the festive merry-making and towards a corner bank of windows. There, he joins the company of his own reflection, painted onto the snowy murk of the outside world by the fluorescent lights of the office.

The Christmas party is one of those multi-departmental deals, and takes up a good part of an open plan floor. The usual boxes have been ticked: tinsel stuck in the ceiling tile, fold-out tables stacked with finger food and booze, same twenty Christmas songs played too loudly on a nauseating loop. Dozens, maybe over a hundred of assorted bureau types, many of whom Will barely recognises, are well on their way to getting hammered on the eggnog, the punch and the box wine.

Someone has brought in a case of homebrew. Will examined the choice of intoxicants and helped himself to a bottle of the beer. It's decent. Now he's nursing it slowly in his little corner, having done his rounds or rather, other people's rounds having already done him. Bare minimum of social duty done, he'll now finish his one beer and go home. It's not like he can get drunk. It's not like anyone here would be his designated driver all the way to Wolf Trap.

If he could, he would gladly get drunk. Maybe he will at home. He scans the chattering crowds for the faces of his colleagues. He can hear the strain in their laughs, see them drowning the entirety of last week in tiny plastic cups of forgetting about the Snow Angel.

The dog walker who found the Angel last week was still, as far as Will knew, in psychiatric care. Snow had been falling steadily for the past week, and the woman had been ambling by a stream in idyllic woods near Marriottsville. The first thing she must have seen, from afar, was red. Red didn't belong in the winter landscape of white and brown and grey.

On a shallow incline blanketed with fresh snow, the Angel lay as if it had crashed down from heaven. The arms — the arms had been cleanly removed, replaced with sprawling wings made from naked tree branches painted with blood. The blood had frozen in the night, but not before spilling down in rivulets onto the pure white beneath, forming liquid feathers of crimson. The head had been stripped of skin, skull split, emptied and turned into a vessel from which burst foliage and flowers: berry-studded holly, calla lilies, red amaryllis, mistletoe. The legs were bound tightly in white canvas, mummified. Who needs legs, Will had thought at the scene, with wings like that to give you flight?

The naked torso had appeared to have been left in tact, though it was later found to be missing its kidneys.

Will puts his face to the window, close enough to make out the shapes of the world beyond the glass. Snow has started up again and, watching it fall, Will begins to swelter from the stuffy office aircon mixing in with the heat of a hundred drunken bodies. He wants to be outside. He needs to think, away from the forced cheerfulness that disguises the tiredness and distress and confusion of the people he works with.

He doesn't bother with goodbyes, grabs his coat, heads out: elevator, empty hallways, security. He's out the front door when he realises he's still holding his beer — and that's enough of a distraction that he slips on the last icy step leading out the building, takes a spectacular fall and braces his impact with one hand squarely in the remains of the bottle that's just smashed at his feet.

"Ow. Gah. Fuck."

Pissed and swearing, he staggers to his feet, blood dripping from his hand and onto the snowy pavement. Will squints at the damage: the heel of his palm is a mess, at least three shards of glass stuck at unsettling angles in the skin. He's calculating whether he can get away with avoiding stitches when he hears then sees the crunch of nearby footsteps and a shadow fall on the tableau of blood, snow and shattered glass. Will looks up: Hannibal.

"Good evening, Will. Adding a splash of color to the scenery?"

"Yeah, bleeding all over government property is my secret hobby," Will says, then frowns. "I mean hi. Evening."

Hannibal regards Will for a moment. Snowflakes are settling lazily on his slicked hair and on a coat that probably cost half of Will's annual salary. He's holding one of those gift bags designed for carrying wine bottles. He nods to Will's hand. "I'd be happy to have a look at that for you."

"'Sokay, you have a party to go to. It's not that bad, I'll just go and—"

"It's no trouble. I'm only here briefly to drop off something for Jack." Hannibal produces a hankerchief from his coat and offers it to Will, despite muttered protests. "This is clean. Come, let's see to your wound. I insist."

\---  
  
They get in the elevator.

"No, not that floor. That's the party and there's probably drunk people in the break room by now Xeroxing their asses. One down."

In the break room on a deserted floor, Will runs his hand under the tap while Hannibal retrieves the first aid kit. Seasonal music is drifting in from upstairs, muffled and eerie and distant. Two larger shards of glass are dislodged from Will's hand by the force of the water and clunk against the bottom of the sink.

They sit down at the table and Will stares at the token PVC Christmas tree stuck in the corner. Otherwise he'd have to stare at Hannibal, who's removed his coat and jacket, rolled up his sleeves and taken Will by the wrist. It's all too much trouble on Will's account. The crumpled bloody remains of Hannibal's hankerchief left by the sink are bad enough.

"Sorry about your, uh. It's ruined."

Hannibal doesn't answer. He's laid out gauze on the table and takes a pair of tweezers from the kit. He leans in to examine the wound, close enough for Will to feel his breath. The risk of eye contact reduced, Will does watch him then: his perfect focus, his steady hand.

"A few finer slivers to remove," Hannibal says. "But, as you said, it's not too bad and the bleeding is subsiding already. Try to hold still."

Quiet settles around them while Hannibal sets about his task. Will grits his teeth slightly as the glass is extracted from his skin and laid like bloody jewels on the gauze.

"You were leaving the party early," Hannibal murmurs, still leaned over Will's hand. "Not having fun, Will?"

"The pretense was getting to me."

"Of festive cheer?"

Will nods.

"Are you so certain it's fake?"

"It feels fake. I know the kind of stress they're under. The things they see."

"Perhaps they're seeking comfort and solace in familiar rituals. You cannot begrudge them that."

"I don't begrudge them anything." Will watches as a thin needle of glass is teased out from his thumb. "Maybe it does help them. Illusions matter. Clichés too."

Hannibal gives a little nod of agreement. He smooths an antiseptic wipe over the wound and begins to bind Will's hand in gauze. "They're just not for you."

"I guess not."

"What would you consider a more original manifestation of the season's spirit?"

Perhaps it's Hannibal's turn of phrase, but Will winces, and not from pain. His mind answers the question at once: wings of blood against the snow, skull streaming out blooms in the dead of winter. An angel of the Lord, come to bring tidings. Definitely not of comfort or joy, and yet...

Life sprouting from death. Color against a bleak canvas. The dead given flight.

A defiant celebration.

"Will?" Hannibal gives Will's wrist a little squeeze.

Will blinks at his bandaged hand then up at Hannibal's face. He wants to say it. He'll sound unhinged. Unstable.

"What's in the bag?" he asks instead.

Hannibal looks to his carrier bag then eyes Will. "A bottle of very fine old rum. A gift for Jack." A pause, then he reaches for the bag. "How about a toast, Will?"

"No, seriously, I can't— It's a gift."

"It's no trouble. He can have another bottle and besides," Hannibal gives Will an impression of a conspiratorial smile. "You look like you could use some true Christmas cheer."

Hannibal stands to seek out glasses for the rum. Will watches him for a moment: the calm, easy movements of sleeves being rolled down, cuffs rebuttoned, jacket slipped back on.

He looks down to the gauze that holds the bloody shrapnel extracted from his hand. The shards of glass have been arranged into a tiny red star.


End file.
